


Time

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Story: The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:55:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29367375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: She clutched the note in her hand, resisting the urge to pace. It would do no good to wear herself out, but what could cause John to wire her for help? FINA AU
Kudos: 8





	Time

“Tell Martha that I found what she requested in Meiringen.”

She resisted the urge to crumple the telegram in her hand, checking the current time instead. The hands announced several more hours before her station, and she could not quell her worry. John’s message had arrived two days before, written using the code they had established for if he and Sherlock were in danger. She had grabbed her revolver and taken the next train out of London.

John and Sherlock had stood together against countless criminals over the years, and never before had John used the alert she had requested just in case. Who could be threatening them that they could not handle themselves? The one name John had mentioned the night before they left—a former mathematics professor, if she remembered correctly—he had also said the Yard was supposed to capture days ago. Had the professor escaped? Or was this someone different?

She had no way of knowing, and, as Sherlock so often said, it was pointless to speculate. She could only wait, try not to pace, and hope the train would arrive in time.

John and Sherlock had hurriedly left just over a week ago—Sherlock had needed to get out of the country for a few days, and John had gone with him, of course—and she doubted she would ever tell them all that had happened in the interim. From someone setting fire to the Baker Street sitting room to a rough-looking man following her out of the market one day, the last week had hardly been _quiet_ , and now John felt threatened enough that he had called _her_ for help.

John would only call her for help if he had no other option. Despite knowing all she had learned and done in India and around school, he still held the very gentlemanly mentality that women were to be protected, and he continually sought a balance between acknowledging her skills and trying to keep her out of danger. It grated at times, but she respected his wish to protect her, knowing it came from love rather than chauvinism.

So what would cause him to ask her for help?

She turned the question over in her mind over the long train ride, eventually pacing the small compartment for several minutes before forcing herself to resume her seat. It would not do to wear herself out before she even arrived, but John and Sherlock were in _danger._ She needed to be there, needed to make sure the two most important people in her life were safe.

Her hand slipped back into her pocket almost without her noticing, and she resumed fingering the revolver her father had given her so many years ago. He had taught her to shoot while in India, and the revolver had arrived at the boarding school when she was thirteen, accompanied by a note that specified it was for practice, nothing else. Her father had further warned of its imminent—and permanent—removal if she used it for anything but practice, but he had never had to fulfill that threat. She had used the revolver and the ammunition he regularly sent to target trees and rocks in the fields and forests surrounding her boarding school, honing the skills he had taught her and preparing herself for any possible career later in life. She had been fascinated at the time with tales of being a spy and working for the government, and while being a governess and a doctor’s wife hardly fit that mold, her shooting ability—and the other skills her father had taught her—had often become useful while helping with Sherlock’s cases. She thanked her father frequently, though he had been gone many years, for all he had taught her. Those lessons long ago had more than once captured a criminal or saved a life, and the first time Sherlock had seen her pick a lock was one of her favorite memories.

She tried to lose herself in those memories now, hoping to make the time pass quicker, but it was no use. Worry continually overrode the happier thoughts, and she spent the trip fidgeting in her seat and staring out the window.

What could cause John to message _her?_

She was no closer to answering that question by the time the train finally came to a stop in Meiringen, and she was more than ready to disembark the slow-moving locomotive. Her lack of bags meant she reached the platform in a matter of moments, and a quick scan of the station confirmed John’s absence. She hurried through town, headed for the inn another passenger had recommended when questioned. Several people looked at her strangely, she noticed, watching the obviously foreign woman nearly running down the street, but none of them bothered her.

The other passenger had recommended the Englischer Hof primarily because its landlord spoke fluent English, and she found the man they had described standing on the hotel porch. He stared toward a nearby path, confusion on his face, and was just turning towards the door when her rushing steps reached him. The confusion hid behind a mask of greeting.

“Peter Steiler?” she asked before he could inquire if she wanted to rent a room.

He nodded. “What can I do for you?”

“I was separated from my traveling companions,” she answered quickly. That was the simplest truth, and she needed to hurry. “A tall, thin man with dark hair and a shorter man with a mustache. The shorter man might have been walking with a cane. Have you seen them?”

The confusion returned, and he glanced back at the dirt path.

“They went to Rosenlaui by Reichenbach Falls,” he answered, “but the doctor returned only a few minutes ago, believing I had requested his aid with a patient.” He hesitated. “You should probably stay here, madam. He nearly sprinted back up the path when I said I hadn’t sent the note. I think they may be in trouble. I was about to send the police after them.”

Ice wrapped around her chest, and she fought not to show it, forcing the words to stay level.

“I believe I know what happened, and it does not require the police.” It would not if she could reach them in time, anyway. She pointed at the trail he had been eyeing. “Does this path lead directly to the falls?”

He affirmed that it did, and she raced away, ignoring his hesitant calls to be careful.

The winding path twisted through hills and near sharp cliffs, beauty warring with danger every step of the way, but she saw none of it. She had eyes only for the path ahead of her. The walk was almost as difficult as the long train ride had been, mostly because she was not in shape for a rough, fast hike high in the mountains, but she would take an arduous hike over pacing a train car any day. Waiting was always harder than doing, and while this particular _doing_ stole her breath and made her legs ache, at least she felt like she was accomplishing something.

Occasionally, she thought she spotted someone above her, the figure’s limp making her believe she recognized the person, but they climbed much faster than she would have expected her husband to be capable of doing. She never caught up no matter how quickly she walked.

Nearly two hours passed before the terrain changed, indicating she was growing close to the falls, and she was tiring when a faint voice carried over the water.

_“Holmes!”_

The despair in that voice granted her a second wind, and she sprinted toward the bend in the path.

_“HOLMES!”_

Her husband’s evident grief plainly announced that she was too late, and loss washed over her as she ran closer. John should not be alone for this, but before she could see him, the hair on her neck stood on end. She skidded to a stop, looking around.

There. Camouflaged movement betrayed another man’s presence, and she watched for only a moment before leaving the path. The other man had a rifle, and he aimed toward the trail. She might have been too late for Sherlock, but she refused to let some coward kill her John while he was grieving.

It took only a moment to find the sniper’s hiding place. Expecting to be alone, he was far more focused on targeting John than checking his surroundings, and he never looked back as she steadied her aim. A gunshot echoed only once before fading into the roar of the falls. She hurried back the way she had come, danger removed.

John stood in the midst of the path, staring at a scrap of paper in his hand as he fell to his knees, and he did not even look up when she draped an arm over his grief-bowed shoulders.

“John?” she asked.

He made no answer, sorrow shading his face as he stared through the paper in his hand.

“I’m here, John,” she tried again.

“He’s dead,” he murmured, no more aware of her than the sharp rocks digging into his knees. His voice grew even fainter. “He’s dead, and it’s my fault. I killed him.”

“No.” She gently turned his face, imploring him to look _at_ her instead of _through_ her. “Whatever happened here, John, whatever drew you away, it’s _not_ your fault.”

John shook his head, obviously registering her words on some level, but his broken gaze focused just beyond her. “I should have…” he trailed off, looking down at the cigarette case clutched in his other hand instead of finishing the thought, and shadows grew in his eyes. She pushed her own grief down. She had lost a brother this day, too, but John was trying to retreat from her. She could not allow him to withdraw too far in his grief. She knew the dangers of that, had lived it every day for the months after Mother died.

“A note drew you away?” she asked, remembering the innkeeper’s words. She continued after he hesitantly nodded. “You could not have known it was a hoax, John, and I would bet Sherlock told you to leave, that he would meet you somewhere tonight. Did he not?”

She glanced up when a rock tumbled to the path, but there was no one in sight. She turned back toward John in time to catch him nod again.

“I will miss him, too, John, but this is not your fault.”

“I should have stayed with him.”

She swallowed, pain shooting through her at the thought. “Then you would be dead, as well, and he would have died thinking that he had caused your death.”

Broken agony twisted his face though his gaze never lifted from the case he still gripped, and she realized what he was thinking just before it drifted to her ears, barely audible over the thundering falls.

“Better than living knowing I caused his.”

She readjusted, slowly moving to kneel between him and the cliff. In his right mind, John would never even consider the idea, but the emptiness creeping into his gaze clearly showed that he was not fully aware. Even in grief, however, he would not take another with him, and that would give her time to stop him.

“You did not cause his death, John,” she repeated, holding him tightly though he made no move to return the motion. “This isn’t your fault. If fault must be assigned, blame me. I was not fast enough.”

She would rather he blame her than himself, but he merely shook his head.

“You…took the first train,” he said, voice subdued as he gently pulled away. “I did not wire you in time.”

He moved out of reach to look at her, and she saw him box up the grief for later, his expression relaxing to a blank mask. Empty, emotionless eyes met hers.

“I heard a gunshot,” he remembered, his voice barely audible even as he checked her for injury. “Are you—?”

She quickly shook her head, pulling her revolver partly from her pocket. “There was a sniper aiming at you,” she answered.

Something flickered across his gaze almost too quickly for her to catch, and her own pain amplified at the thought that he _regretted_ that she had eliminated the sniper.

If she did not fight for him, she would lose them both at this waterfall.

“I love you.” She crawled to kneel next to him again, pulling him into another embrace then moving to let him lean on the rocks. “You know that, right?”

He nodded, eventually burying his face in her hair, but he still made no move to return the embrace. The roar of the falls filled the silence for several long moments.

“Watson?”

The tentative name carried faintly over the rushing water, but John made no response. Had she imagined it? The grief of Sherlock’s loss tore at her, but surely she was not so deep as to hallucinate his voice.

Was she? She was trying to decide if she should release her grip to look when it came again.

“Watson?”

John tensed, and his head shot up to look toward the path behind her.

“H-Holmes?”

He blinked, staring over her shoulder and apparently unable to believe his eyes, and she forced herself to look, afraid she would find nothing at all despite having heard the questions herself.

Sherlock stood near the falls, a myriad of emotions on his face—most of which she had never seen—and elation shot through her, banishing the grief in a wave of joy. He was alive!

John carefully pulled himself to his feet, eyes on Sherlock even as he helped her up.

“Mary, is he—?” He never looked at her, and the question was so quiet she nearly missed it, but she knew what he was asking. Surprise had stolen her words, however, and all she could do was allow the relief to stretch her mouth into a wide grin.

She knew John saw her smile, but he continued leaning on the rocks even after they had gained their feet. Sherlock slowly walked closer, keeping his hands out of sight.

“But…how?” John finally asked, the single, heavily limping step towards his friend further betraying the wavering hope in his gaze. His eyes flicked toward the falls, then back at where Sherlock strode down the path.

The other man opened his mouth, then closed it, probably deciding to change his wording. “Moriarty went over the falls,” he said simply, still slowly walking towards them, “but he had a lieutenant who was under orders to target you if I survived. I could not reveal myself until I was sure.” That grey gaze cut towards hers, the thanks he would not say nearly shouting through the contact. “I am sorry.”

“The sniper was—” she did not finish—apparently neither of them could finish a sentence—but Sherlock nodded sharply, stopping a pace away.

“His name was Moran.”

John simply stared, trying to believe his eyes. Finally, he closed the space between them enough to lay a careful hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

“I didn’t…” he murmured, the sentence trailing off, but he grinned before Sherlock could make him finish. Some of the heavy grief dissolved under the delight in his expression. “Holmes!”

A smile twitched Sherlock’s mouth, but he turned to her instead of answering.

“John wired me,” she answered the silent question.

Her husband nodded, his gaze still locked on his friend though he let the hand fall to his side. “After the Daubensee rock fall,” he added. “Moriarty was too swift for me. I could not spot him before the danger was over, and you were being far too cavalier to hope you would do anything but purposely spring his trap.” He hesitated, still staring, and if she knew what he was thinking, then Sherlock certainly did.

“Watson,” he said, his ears turning red though his words were firm, “if I _had_ gone over the falls, it would _not_ have been your fault. I purposely sent you away. I paid that boy a shilling to send you back to the hotel.”

“I should have stayed with you.”

Sherlock quickly shook his head, shoulder twitching as if he had almost put one hand on John’s shoulder before thinking better of it. “Then we would both be dead. This was _my_ doing, _my_ plan.” He glanced at her again, “though I am glad Mary arrived when she did.”

The grief bowing John’s shoulders slowly lifted at Sherlock’s insistence, and he leaned easily against the cliff face, a smile still splitting his face.

“I am, too,” he replied, including her in the words though he never looked away from his friend. “She is skilled with that revolver and far better than you are at rock climbing.”

Sherlock’s posture stiffened, and John’s delighted grin grew more mischievous. “How bad are your hands?”

Sherlock huffed but brought his hands from behind his back. Blood seeped from multiple cuts on his palms and fingertips, and John’s lips thinned. This was worse than he had expected.

“What size bandages, John?” she asked immediately, drawing her blade from its pocket in her skirt. Even after the long walk, the upper fabric of her petticoat was clean enough to use until they could reach medical supplies.

“Long and thin,” he replied immediately, overriding Sherlock’s protests as he examined the cuts, “each about six or eight inches long.”

She made quick work of the cleanest fabric she had, and within minutes, Sherlock was scowling at the strips of cloth covering most of each hand. He would not be able to use his fingers until they changed the bandages—perhaps not until some of the shallower cuts healed—but the cloth would keep the cuts clean for now.

Sherlock gingerly claimed the Alpen-stock leaning against a nearby rock, though she noticed John made no move to return the note, and she spoke from behind them as Sherlock led them down the path.

“Where to now?”

John looked at his friend, obviously putting the question to him, and a smile twitched Sherlock’s mouth. “I had not thought that far ahead,” he admitted, “but there is no reason we cannot continue our travels, if you would like?”

“Moriarty’s case is finished?” John confirmed, and Sherlock nodded. “Good,” John said with a grin, drawing her up to walk three across in a wider section of the path, “then you can tell us the details of this case on the way to Rosenlaui.”

Sherlock barked a laugh but agreed, and she covered her surprise when his story started over a year ago, with a smuggling operation that ended on the pier during what was supposed to be a holiday for the two of them. This case was far larger than she or John had known.

They had time to listen, however. The walk to Rosenlaui would take several hours, and there was no reason to hurry back to London. She was content to listen to Sherlock’s story, watch the two of them bicker, and occasionally interject her own comments. All the time she had thought lost had been returned, and she saw her own gratitude mirrored in her husband’s face.

She thanked her father yet again for the shooting lessons so long ago. He had saved three lives this day.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)


End file.
